Met a lovely specimen Saturday who recently booted her spouse of twenty years. Instead of eagerly anticipating a new sex toy attached to a less complacent man, she seemed frightened. Where would she meet men? At bars? Should she join a dating site? Get another dog?

As a wily veteran who was once in her stilettos (figuratively … except than one Halloween I purged from my memory), I offered a few tips.

“You need to learn phrases you’re going to hear from men penetrating you, and their true meaning.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Also, you’ll need to memorize a few phrases you’ll need to deploy.”

“Such as?”

“Say, for instance, you meet a handsome fellow who causes a tingle in your taco. You decide, against better judgement, to bang him on date uno. If the sex is pedestrian, thank him and call Uber. If it was spectacular, you probably would like to do it again, so you need to soothe his slut-shaming mind.”

“How?”

“Simple. Say, ‘Oh my god, I don’t know what came over me. I never do this. There’s something about you. I’m so embarrassed.’ Then pull the sheets up to your chin.”

“That works?”

“Like a charm.”

I’ve heard that feigned-innocence line enough times to have developed a few responses of my own. If the sex was awful, I smile, pat her on the head, fetch a towel, retrieve her chonies, and show her to the door. If it was noteworthy, my response would be one of the following:

Hey, just think about all the idle chatter we avoided. This is something special we have here.

My heart is racing. God, I needed that. Been so long since I’ve had that feeling. Why are you so cute?

The minute I met you I could tell there was a flow between us. Now, I know it’s real. I hope you still respect me in the morning.

Those of you like me who have volleyed numerous post-coital lines may have felt a little verklempt when reading the above. Well, my love-cynical freaks, we must consider the little people. Those who are new to chasing three beers and two tequila shots with one vagina or penis can find great solace in the above. One heart unbroken makes it all worthwhile.

When you reward behavior, you encourage it. This applies to dogs and humans. Pop offered me $5 for each “A” on my report card, so I worked hard to get them. I was told to honor, respect, and be kind to others regardless of their gender, skin color, or favorite football team. Excluding Dallas Cowboy fans, I’ve done my best, and received such fine reactions as, “Well, thank you for holding the door. You’re a fine young gentleman.”

So, how does my next lover want to be treated?

I don’t want to turn this into a political statement. (Save that for Facebook.) Yet, I watched and listened to ten years of Trump bashing women and immigrants. Was he punished to discourage this? Well, let’s see: He has a hot, young wife, he went bankrupt numerous times and was forgiven, he called his opponents names, made false accusations, and said he likes to grab women by the pussy … and we just elected him president.

Wait … what?

Saying and doing the things he has done is fine in the context of entertainment and comedy. I admit that I’m a dickhead, but I’m kidding, and I’m not running for president. But, we just rewarded his behavior in the most profound way. When I say “we,” I’m not just referring to uneducated white redneck men. The very people he maligned voted for him as well. Fuck, Hillary may have voted for him. Sounds crazy? Shit, I’ve heard plenty of women defend their abusers.

I’m confused. It’s as if I were managing a group of women, and treated them Trump-like. Daily activities would include:

I pay them handsomely.

I set up my office in their restroom.

I slap their asses twice a day.

When they’re caught not giving me sufficient praise, I call them liars and suggest they be shot.

For this, I would receive their loyalty.

Come on. Help a brother out here. I’m going on another first date tonight. This suggests my previous first dates were failures. So, what am I doing wrong? I shower, dress nicely, wear cologne, arrive early, compliment her, ask her questions about her, listen, ignore my phone, pay the tab, escort her out walking behind her, hold the door, give her a respectful hug, ask when I can see her again, and confirm she got home safely.

I must have it all wrong.

Perhaps, I should try the president-elect approach. I go straight from the gym, arrive late, ask to see her tits, tell her about my stock portfolio, interrupt her, pinch her ass, call my buddies and brag about how I’m about to bang this bar slut, tell her I forgot my wallet, tell her I’ll meet her in the parking lot after I take a dump, hit on another bar patron on my way out, meet my date at her car and shove my hand down her pants, tell her she had better fuck me tonight, or I’m not answering any texts, screw her in the backseat of her car, come in her hair, and leave.

Then, once a connection is made, it’s time for back and forth messages. Since there’s no actual face-to-face involved, my body language interpretation skills—honed over two million years by my ancestors—are worthless. I need to read into her words to determine what emotional and time investment will be required before connection.

Also, in the oldern days, it was easy to determine danger levels. Is there a big fella next to her with his hand on her ass? Yep. Avoid. Are there physical signs of tainted goods? Perhaps. Evade. Are there snarky friends, overbearing parents, or smelly infants/pets close by? Uh-huh. Run away!

Today, I need to do electronic surveillance to find signs of danger. Scan social media. Google. Search for common friends. Run health, credit, and background checks. (I don’t do that ridiculous shit, but have had ladies put me through it.) Ask my buddies if they ever had some of her and, if they did, was it worthwhile, am I violating any bro codes by pursuing her. Then, I must determine if these “friends” are being honest or setting me up for failure.

A few rounds of this, and I’m scanning Amazon Fire TV for the next series to binge watch solo. I just can’t take it. Don’t have the drive I used to have. Is that caused by dwindling testosterone? Is it fear of heartbreak? Is it laziness?

Fuck, if I know.

The latest prospects have me sending Bitmoji messages and using this new video app called Marco Polo. What have I become? I loathe the millennial I see in the crosswalk with his dislocated neck staring at his phone without any regard for the two-ton machine bearing down on him, but I am becoming him.

If I set my phone facedown at the bar, within minutes it will blink, buzz, and ding. It calls me to pay attention to it instead of the human in the sexy Cat Woman costume right next to me. Rude fucker.

Times like these make me wonder why I ever left my marriage. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but whose is? She was kind and beautiful, and she liked me … enough. I didn’t need to find something better. Now, I’d be thrilled to find something half as good. But, I’m not going to. This isn’t stemming from depression or lack of confidence. It’s reality. In this new electronic realm, it’s high unlikely any satisfactory, lasting emotional and physical connection will come from an electronic connection.

There are many reasons why one would choose single life, but since we’re genetically shoved toward mating, I guess they’re technically excuses. There’s a difference. If you don’t do your homework, your excuse could be “the dog ate it” but the reason is you found something you’d rather do.

So, allow me to examine the top implications.

“Why are you single?”

Reasons:

Man: I can’t afford a girlfriend. Woman: I can’t afford another messy pet.

I’m not over my ex.

I’m too lazy to do all the swiping and messaging required nowadays.

Excuses:

I’m quite content, even happy to be on my own.

Men/Women suck.

I don’t have time.

“You haven’t been in any long-term relationships recently.”

(I usually ask for qualification here with, “Define ‘long-term’ and ‘recently.’” They both tend to be the duration and time since her last boyfriend. The best answer here is, “Have so,” but that rarely prevents further questioning.)

Reasons:

I keep looking for something better.

I’m too set in my ways (read: selfish).

I don’t date the girlfriend type—more the on-her-back-frequently type.

Excuses:

I just haven’t met the right one yet.

I don’t want to waste someone’s time. If it isn’t working, I set her free.

I have poor taste in women.

“Why don’t you consider women who are older, religious, or with young children or dogs?”

Reasons:

Because I don’t have to. I see older guys with hot young women, and it gives me hope.

Stress sucks.

Nature forces me toward women with full egg sacks, even though I’m fixed.

Excuses:

I do. Those women typically don’t consider me.

They’re all taken.

I’m allergic.

The best excuse to give to all the above is, “I have a condition, and I can’t talk about it.” That ends all inquisitions, and creates peace. Peace is good.

I’m in a locker room almost daily (should be daily, but I’m old and uninspired). You know what sort of discussions I hear in the locker room? None. Crickets. We’re either in there to store or retrieve our stuff. Sure, some fellas are brave enough to shower, shave, or blow dry their genitals. Most? Nothing. Not a word.

If a man started bragging about groping Miss So-and-So, or commented on the impeccable buttocks of Miss Such-and-Such, most of us would ignore him and hasten our exits. We wouldn’t ask for more details. We wouldn’t chest bump him.

Now, whereas most male locker rooms are silent, baseball dugouts are not. Coaches and players are not covering their mouths to prevent their opponents from stealing their strategies. They’re doing it so the audience doesn’t read their lips and discover something unhero-like. Most of what is said “behind the glove” is less misogynist and more game-related. Things like:

“How could you walk that numb nuts?”

“We have a frying pan playing second base. Make sure you pitch inside.”

“How’d we get stuck with Stevie Wonder behind the dish?”

“This guy says you don’t throw hard enough to hurt him.”

“Any chance you can mix in a few strikes before my sunscreen wears off?”

Yes, there’s the occasional female-related comment. It’s usually about a fan, and qualified:

“Which one of you dickheads am I going to offend when I comment on your granddaughter’s inability to keep her legs closed?”

I’m not claiming that all comments are harmless. Sure, some guys take it too far. But, usually, the comments about women involve flattery or fantasy (from our standpoint, not hers, unless she’s a certain kind of woman in a certain kind position). The important distinction is that our locker room talk at its worst is about things we’d like to do to her, whereas a certain tangerine-colored douche canoe who happens to be running for president describes things he has done. Deeds are far more destructive than words, are they not?

Ladies, just to keep you informed, these are things my fellow swine and I say we’d like to do to you. Again, there are circumstances in which you’d find these less offensive:

Things we don’t say involve marriage, parenting, or gifting. Ah, but, you can use your imagination. Add your own subtitles. Or, continue to live with the fact that you’re stuck with immature perverted drunks as mating options.

Ever hear the claim that we are the average of the three people we hang out most with? Usually, it refers to financial status. Hang with three filthy rich people and some of that dirt will coat you. Unsure I buy into that. It’s more likely to be a symptom instead of the cause. If you’re rich, you typically hang in social circles with rich people, right?

I hang with drunks, baseball players, and cats. Average those three and, yep, you got me. Well, I don’t lick myself and sleep in the sun. Still, like my three closest friends, I’m a drunk with a baseball problem. Sure, I consider the benefits of ordering a cobb salad and unsweetened iced tea after a game. Yet, I’m not up for wearing a bully bullseye.

Do you see yourself in others?

I watch a buddy drink himself silly and applaud myself for not being in his shoes. Yet, I’m probably too drunk to realize I am. Then, I get paranoid about how friends and mates see me. Am I someone’s obnoxious drunk buddy?

Three guys my age strolled into the bar and sat in front of my last weekend. I was a party of one, as usual. I could tell the three were around my age (double nickel), and all I could see in each were parts of me I despise. There must be some clinical term for this that, when eventually diagnosed, will open a wonderful new world of sedation options.

All three, in my eyes, were trying too hard. One had obviously died hair, intentionally messed. I couldn’t stop wondering why he wouldn’t dye his eyebrows to match. Another wore a fashionable T-shirt one size too tight. He looked like a potato sack. His bare arms featured lunch lady triceps and enough elbow folds to store his credit cards. Man three had tight jeans, a sweater tied around his neck, and thick framed glasses.

They all flirted embarrassingly with the servers, then stared creepily at the youthful butts as the ladies fetched their craft beer. Then there was the typical boy-what-I-would-do-to-her comments that made me wish one of these ladies would pivot and remind them the closest they’d ever get would be masturbation fantasy.

Yet, these women are not servants; they are wise manipulators of men who deserve to be exploited.

I was disgusted. Still, I’ve done all of those things. Is this Nature slapping me? Should I clear my closet and force myself to avoid objectifying women as gene replicators? Perhaps. Should I stop calling serves and bartenders pet names like “lovely,” “beautiful,” and “cuteness?” Yeah, probably should. They’re better than “ma’am” and “miss,” right? How about “kitten?” I know—fuck, no.

These fellas were likely similarly disgusted by yours truly—dirty old lonely man at a bar.

“Look at him. Pathetic. He’s probably married, and the wife kicked him out. Or, he’s stinky—hasn’t learned the fine art of modern male grooming. He looks desperate. Who wears printed shirts? Ew. He thinks he’s cool drinking bourbon. That reminds chicks of their grandfathers. Bet that watch is a knock off, too. Poor old sap.”

I overheard a woman saying, “There’s not a single man in this bar I would sleep with.”

“OK, how many married ones?” I intruded.

“Very funny. Zero. How many women here would you have sex with?”

“I think you know the answer to that question is substantially more than zero.”

“What percentage?”

“Jesus. I don’t know. Sixty?”

“Really? Actually that’s much lower than I expected.”

“Well, I’m proud to fall short of your expectations.”

“It’s still pretty ridiculous. Are you desperate or a man-slut?”

“How about a third option: I’m generous.”

She wrinkled her nose and cast me aside like a napkin ring. I was disqualified as a mate along with the rest of the patrons before I had a chance to woo her with charm. That was shallow and judgmental on her part, wasn’t it?

Perhaps, I would have been wiser to identify her as the only woman I found desirable enough to consider pausing my morals, bedding a stranger, and thus opening myself to slut shaming. Nah. She would have seen through it.

I wonder what the typical percentage is by gender. I have male friends who are “generous” enough to get close to 100%. For us, it’s more of a factor of how long it has been since the last encounter. For ladies, there’s just too much at stake (emotions, STDs, and babies) to be open to porking half the bar.

Still, it would have done much for my depleted ego to be her chosen one. In fact, that would be the only answer she could give to make my day: “I only find one guy attractive enough to consider that, and I’m looking at him.” Anything more than one man means competition, and I’m far too old and tired to get into a sword fight.

I would bet most women would answer as she did with zero percent. Some would say, “One or two, but it would require three references, a clean STD report, and more drinks than I’m typically willing to have on a Sunday.”

Kind of sucks for single swine like I. Every time I step into a den of inebriation, I do so with the hopes that tonight might be the night I find a solution to the aches and pains caused by a torturous dating scene. Yet, the odds say I’m almost as likely to drown in my bathtub. (By the way, why is drowning in a bathtub the measuring stick for ways to die? How deep are people’s tubs? Fuck. Who even has the time to take baths? How do you wash your hair in a tub? You’d have to slide down and submerge yourself in ass water. Oh, that’s how people die. Or, are they using a transistor radio while tubbing? God damn stupid. Take a fucking shower.)

Sorry.

Bottom line is bars are full of slutty men and overly-discerning women. It’s amazing we ever dock privates.

Women can be heartless, I tell ya. A pair of finely aged specimens sat next to me and my Deep Eddy Vodka last night. One did a few swipes in the car on their way over. She informed us that one particular swipee was on his way to meet her.

“What do you know about this fella?” I asked.

“Nothing. He had a cute picture, so I told him to come meet me. Why waste time, you know?”

“I hear ya.”

“Until we meet face-to-face I have no idea if there’s chemistry.”

“What if there’s none?”

“Then I’ll get rid of him.”

“Jesus, you sound like my uncles back in the day.”

“Huh?”

“Italian thing. Never mind.”

So we sat and chatted as she lubed up the chassis (added enough alcohol to her system to help his chances). I understood her asking him by when her friend and I were potential witnesses. Even creepy men tend to behave in crowds. I would never have a prospect meet me while a buddy is nearby. That never ends well. Rather take my chances solo, and keep my balls unbusted.

So, homeboy shows up, and I can tell by her reaction it will be a pit stop for him. He wisely orders an iced tea, thus limiting his losses.

I thought he was handsome enough, but my standards are hardly comparable to most women’s. For me it’s like matching ties and shirts. This goes with that. Hence, I could picture the two of them as the next bar-side couple to gross me out with face-slobbering PDA.

Nope.

He left his two dollars, tucked his tail, and headed back into the jungle. The dew hadn’t sufficient time to condense on his glass before it was over.

“Christ, woman! What was that all about?”

“I could tell the minute I saw him it wasn’t going to happen.”

“You’re speaking like a superficial dude.”

“Look, I couldn’t see myself fucking him, so he had to go. He wasn’t as cute as his pictures. I was worried he might be a redhead, which is a ‘hell no’ for me.”

A trend started that I totally missed: hooking up by playing Words with Friends (WWF). Here I thought Scrabble was a fine way to build one’s vocabulary. Turns out, a few well-placed letter squares can get you mating.

Just like a group of ladies at a wine bar will eventually be playing “Show and Cell Tell” with pics of high fashion, a group of men at a dive bar will play “Pass the Phone Porn.” My opinion is valued, so I don’t shy away. My usual response is, “Nice. Where did you meet her?” Yep, WWF is where these animals are found.

It started back in the day when one of my first observation was on a flip phone passed from a coworker. It was an intimate scene featuring a nude woman and variety of raw vegetables. Little Miss Salad Bar, as I henceforth affectionately referred to her, tossed him the picture while chatting during WWF. How generous of him to share. I immediately went in search of the next Vagina Soup Queen, to no avail.

Tiny, grainy images have evolved into 1080p pics and video. Oh, boy! Many of these include the face of the feature star. That fascinates me. Is it apathy or unawareness of how eager we swine are to share our spoils? Rest assured that if you send a sexy selfie including the back-end of an Oral-B, that shit will be seen by a dozen piglets.

I refuse to examine the photos sent in response by my brothers. One penis in my life is plenty. Wouldn’t know what women would find sexy in response, anyway. Certainly, no positive Yelp reviews would come from Joe’s Market pictures of the proprietor fucking the cabbage.

So, how does finding a word with an S in the middle devolve into unabashed kinkery? Would a simple choice of “ASS” over “ASH” start the cascade? That’s a horrible choice. I’m no expert, but an H must be worth more than a fucking S. Heck, there’s probably a Scrabble cheater site out there with naughty word suggestions. (If not, I’m registering that domain now.) Still, how does one tiny word send things tumbling toward Tina texting me titillating twat shots? Here’s how I’d envision it.

“Ooh, you’re feisty, young man. OK. Here’s my word. L-I-C-K.”

“Dayum, girlie. That’s a good one. Got a double letter on that K. Fuckin’ A. All right. C-O-C-K.”

“Oh em gee, you’re too funny. I’m love that word so much that I’m going to attach to it. P-E-A.”

“Peacock? Nice! Well, then I can play dirty too. I’m adding my F to your LICK. And, by the way, I hope you’re flicking your bean as you type.”

Another year goes buy in a blink. I enjoy a huge bowl of egg drop soup—made for four, eaten four times by one. I retire home to my resting place—the recliner. I’m sore—more than before. Baseball and workouts cause a certain kind of soreness—this one is from old age. My arm hurts. My skin sags. My hair is misplaced. Yet, I’m content.

As soon as I get the leg rest out and the TV fired up, my two fuzzy children climb onto my chest, walk circles, and flop. They must sense this special day as I turn 55—8 or so in cat years, which means the two lumps have finally caught up to me. We’re tired.

I thumb the remote, sip tea, and wait for the wave of depression. Alone at 45, 50, and now 55. Some would find that unbearably sad, but I’m not one of the “some.” I’m fine. Perhaps escaping the stress of taking care of more than one human has done me good.

If my friends could see me now (the ones without cats), they’d ride me like a rusty beach cruiser. “Dirty old cat man. You’ll die alone.” Yes, I will. I’ll also die without regrets, obligations, or a penny to my name. I plan on using me up, but I do thank you for doing your part to keep the species alive.

My dearest friends dispense sedation. Last night it was bourbon, rocks with a cherry.

“Why a cherry?” my favorite nurse asks.

“Because I like to crush it into the drink.”

“I can muddle it for you.”

“I prefer to do it myself. It’s symbolic, perhaps.”

“Christ. I’m not touching that.”

“Yeah, best you don’t.”

“So, what are you doing for birthday dinner?”

“Steak—pink and salty.”

“With whom?”

“No one. I can still manage to feed myself.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you have a wonderful birthday.”

“Thank you, my lovely. Cheers. You’ve done your part.”

I pull the stem, crush and tear the cherry, and push the pieces under my Bulleit bourbon and cubes. I sip and sigh. Life is good. Bourbon is good. God, she’s lovely. Tonight she’ll be mine, in mind only. Won’t hurt her a bit. She’ll never know.

Another sip as I scan my fellow patients. Most are paired up. Others are swiping their phones. The TVs show silly boys—modern day gladiators—playing for millions, making misplaced political statements against the machine that bought their Bentleys. Now, that’s sad.

With any luck, 56 will be similar. I expect and can handle more physical aches. Mental anguish is far worse. A candle smokes once again, as I wish for serenity.

Went to my usual booze puddle last night. Found two vacant bar stools, couple on the right, and single man on the left. I politely asked if either seat were being saved. Homeboy on my left exploded, “Yes, yes, I am saving this.” The couple pleasantly said no, and I sat.

My take on homeboy’s situation was that he was waiting for a woman whom he was still in the stage of impressing. I was a possible encroachment. He switched seats and sat next to me, lest his prey be within biting distance of me, the evil silver lion. I expected to be entertained by more than my blue cheese burger that night. Expectations met.

His prey showed—a fine Mexican specimen carrying a bag of gifts. Seemed she was also at the “impress the mate” stage. He grabbed her face and kissed it. This made a noise. It didn’t scare me; it annoyed me. She handed him the goodie bag. He pulled various Mexican candies and desserts that she brought from this morning’s trip across the border. He acted gracious. I saw through it.

He made sure he had his back to me while engaging her. No fucks were given by me. I just dunked my crispy fries and watched the Padres take another spanking while listening to his horrible phrases designed to have buttons undone. Every few minutes, he’d lean in and slobber on her face. I wished I had ear buds.

Finally, Faceleech Man had sufficiently glazed her face and suggested they leave. I was eternally grateful that the show was over, and there would be little interruption (*SLURP*, *SMACK*, *GOBBLE*) to the bad eighties music being piped in. I’ll take Kajagoogoo over PDA any day.

As they left, I realized he had left her bag of gifts behind. My nice guy reflexes kicked in. I leapt to my feet, grabbed the bag, and ran out the front to catch them. As I approached, I knew this would have been a great time to mind my own business. Still, I stopped them.

“Excuse me.”

They both turned and saw me. She smiled awkwardly. He was unhappy to see me.

“I think you left this,” I offered.

“No, that’s not ours,” he snapped.

At this point a wave of joy came over me. He had just achieved a level of self-cock-blockery that I had never reached nor witnessed.

“Actually, I think she brought you this, right?”

I opened the bag to show the contents. The mood changed. Her smile turned upside-down. He panicked, turned pink, and took the bag. I basted in my glory.

When I returned the bartenders complimented me on being such a good Samaritan. I assured them my deed went unappreciated, and someone besides me would end this night unlaid.

Damn birds been shitting all over my courtyard. I put up spikes over my door and windows. They gave be the claw, moved five feet over, and shit there. Bastards. Finally, I did what most smart people do—I used this thing called “The Interweb” and asked Amazon WTF my options are.

Brilliantly, they suggested the use of a stunt owl. Hmm, are birds that stupid? I’d probably catch the little pricks either fucking it or shitting on it. Still, any shit machine scared away would make it worthwhile, so I bought it.

Cute little fucker. I shall name him “Hootie.”

$18.97 is what he cost. Not bad. He’s pretty imposing, standing on his fake wood stump at around 18 inches. He has big eyes and a swivel head, not unlike me at the bar watching lovely servers bound by.

After a week of Hootie sitting there in my mulch, I do notice a significant decrease in shit puddles. Also, since I like to keep my windows open, I am hearing less chirping. I love Hootie. Yes, I do. My cats? Not so much. Symon jumped on the windowsill and demanded an explanation.

“Yo, Pop. What’s with the bug-eyed lump of plastic?”

“It’s an owl.”

“It’s not an owl. It’s not moving. Hence, that is either a dead owl you nailed to a stump or it’s the worst lawn ornament since the jockey.”

“It’s designed to scare birds away, since you suck at it, Symon.”

“I do not suck at it. I can’t very well scare anything from behind this screen, now can I? What do you expect me to do, insult them? Hey birdie, you’re an incontinent lump of useless feathers, more suited to be in my belly. Ooh, scary.”

“Shut it. Good thing you are cute, because you are certainly an asshole cat.”

“An asshole who doesn’t waste twenty bucks on a horrible replica. Look at him. Hootie? A bit on the nose, Pop. He just sits there. His head rotates three hundred sixty degrees. Owls do one-eighties, dickhead. This dumb Exorcist movie extra wannabe ain’t scarin’ nobody.”

“We’ll see. Oh, and go lick yourself.”

Then, it dawned on me that women use stunt birds like this to scare away shitty men. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve played Hootie for numerous women. Fuck! They invite me out to sit next to them and scare away douche-boys. I sit there swiveling my head, I don’t get laid, and I don’t even get $18.97 for my services.

In fact, a gorgeous specimen I’ve seen out a few times strolled into my watering hole last night with her owl. She looked awesome as always. He wore a horrible paisley blue button down. She looked at me, smiled, then held his hand. I cried Tito’s tears and stayed away. Worked like a charm. I need to find a way to tell the replica from the real thing. Up to this point, I’m clueless. Guess it’s bird kharma.

Han’s lovely wife, Hope Solo (fuck if I know that’s true), got in trouble recently because of her honesty. Seems organizations, unlike people, would rather have their employees lie about their feelings. That’s horse shit. I have no boss, so I can say that without being reprimanded.

Whatever you do, Hope, don’t you dare apologize!

Worsening this is the fact that the “boss” demands an apology. This is doubly doo doo because that apology would be a lie as well. If Hope apologized, she would do it for financial reasons, not because her feelings changed or she agreed that she had done something wrong.

What ever happened to “honesty is the best policy?” My books all have “Nice” in the titles, not because I always say such nice things. No. It’s because I’m being sarcastic. I’m not nice—not in print, not in person. I’m a genuine prick who is learning to unfilter my reactions by being honest with myself and others.

If you don’t like me, that’s unsettling, but not as much so as if you tell me you do like me, regardless of your true feelings. For whatever reason—being nice, concern for my ego, prying ears—you are lying, and I can usually tell. It’s Passive Aggression 101, and that is what should be fucking punished, not honesty.

Sore losers should be sore because they lost. Losing sucks. Losing was not the intention. Losers who are happy, content, and gracious become really good at (guess what?) losing. People who hate losing, get pissed about it, and lash out, tend to work harder to avoid it, thereby becoming winners.

Same shit in the dating world. If I ask a woman out, and she declines, these are the usual reasons:

I have not yet exhausted all of what I consider to be options superior to you.

Now, if she gives me the corporate answer, what good that does do either one of us? None. It leaves the door open for me, which causes me to become more determined (because women prefer men with determination and confidence). I’ll keep hitting on her repeatedly (quite possibly including picking up tabs that should have been left down). I’ll become “that creepy fucking dude who won’t leave me alone.” I’m pathetic; she’s annoyed; nobody gets laid.

Hope, please, I’m begging you and other fine young specimens to let the corpocratic assholes take your job, but don’t ever let them have your dignity. Fuck ’em in their ears.

Ever hear a word and think it’s an excellent choice for your next pet’s name? Well, one of my buds came clean at a dirty dive bar yesterday about an upcoming procedure. Once he mentioned the word (scrotoplasty), all I could think of (to distract me from the painful imagery concocted within my gin-soaked skull) was what a great name it would make for a kitten.

“Here, Scroto. Want some catnip, fella?”

Those of you—I’m hoping for most of you—who don’t know what scrotoplasty is, please allow me to assist. It’s augmentation for the nut sack.

(Pause. Unfuck your mind. Refill your coffee. See you in a bit.)

It involves a tightening of the skin, which tends to see additional sag as we age. I attest, Philly’s balls do sag whence not so chilly. I don’t mind at all. This is why I wear Under Armour boxer briefs. They keep them boys neatly tucked, no matter the climate.

Now, if my bing-bongs became so danglous as to begin slapping off my knees as I jogged on the treadmill, yes, I would consider a nip and tuck. Otherwise, oh, fuck no!

I’ve never heard any woman complain about saggy nuts. Does this happen? I can imagine that pendulous nads could cause some annoyance in missionary position while slapping against your anus. Some might find that pleasurable. Well, if one got stuck that would be an ouchie.

I think it’s part of my pal’s midlife crisis, especially considering he recently had the tip of his penis pierced.

(Pause again. Ow. Mother fucking ow. Jesus.)

Yes, he showed us pictures. It’s a hoop ring though his pee hole, popping out the bottom of his under-head.

(And, yes, my asshole just puckered too, friend-o.)

I asked if he considered a far less painful, more popular, and highly douchey means.

“Couldn’t you just go buy a Corvette?”

“Never. Dude, chicks are into it.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying you leave that ring in when you go deep?”

“Yup.”

(I had to get up, visit the john, and bang my head against the cold tile above the urinal to recover from that one.)

He told us he also has both nipples pierced. I told him I wish he’d create a chain loop from his nuts through his nipples to his ears and back. Then, I’d like him to sit in a puddle during a thunderstorm.

Harsh, I know.

Am I the odd one? No tattoos, piercings, or hair coloring? Well, I do have a Jag. Hope it’s not a gateway crisis drug.

I’m driving down a busy street in my electric Chevy Volt (yes, an admitted nominee for repellant). While stopped at a light, a man pulls up next to me in the bike lane. He’s wearing pajama pants tucked into white, mid-calf tube socks, an embroidered back pack, and a silly biker helmet. This was the trifecta, ensuring he will not be spreading his genes anytime soon.

As much as I’d love to be a pussy magnet, I admit to doing things that don’t serve my desires. A noteworthy encroachment is use of my mobile phone while in the sauna—third favorite place to be behind Positano, Italy and bed. The problem isn’t necessarily the phone use. We all stare at the fuckers all day long. It’s that I’m playing Candy Crush, and I’m at level 809, which means I have wasted around two years of my life popping candy bubbles.

I’ve been called out on it. My reason is that it distracts me from the intense heat and scent of ball sweat. Now, if I were taking selfies in the sauna, that would be a more effective repellant.

Women still hate farting, burping, and spitting. I can’t see those falling of the list anytime soon. Well, spitting might, based on porn I’ve seen recently. Porn is reality, no?

Bar mating games are amusing to me. I usually order an 805 beer and stare at the TV. Around me, boys peacock for attention. One yesterday (sure, he was half my age, but still should know better at age 27) wore a wife beater exposing his tatted pencil-thin arms. Offensive, but not as much as his reverse bob hair-don’t. “Only cute on a cat, son.”

Ladies are quite observant, fellas. If they see you prance around the pub hitting on every unoccupied princess, you had better not approach them. You’ve been labelled as piglet, and no lady wants to be your third-teenth choice, even if you have abs.

Now that football season is here again, another sure way to kick mating options to the curb is to scream at the TV, or discuss your Fantasy Football prowess where they can hear it. In fact, wearing your favorite player’s jersey has also become passé. However, providing your jersey to your sleepover girl-toy is a great idea. Problem is you need to keep a stock of your rival’s jerseys. I once doggie-styled Troy Aikman. The clouds parted.

Being mean to bartenders and servers is still a surefire way to brick up that baby oven. In fact, don’t complain about anything. It reminds ladies of that whiny little nephew who cries because he wants Oreos for dinner.

Fuck. I want Oreos for dinner, too. Little shit has the right idea. God damn it! Now I’m starved. Jesus. Double Stuff dunked in milk. I could stack them into a quad-stuffed delight. Fuck. Vagina can wait. Be right back.

Facebook posts can be quite repellious. (Yay, new word. Take note, Wiki.) Cute ones that attract vag include gourmet food, wine, parents, children, and pets. Horrible ones that distract vag and get you blocked (from cock too) include political rants, shirtless selfies (unless you’re Phelps, perhaps), and more than ten posts in a day.